


Howl

by Tea-Diva (Revenant)



Series: The Devil's Dogs 'Verse [5]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Angst, Gen, Protectiveness, War, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Tea-Diva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bravo 2 is stationed at Camp Mathilda when the existence of werewolves hits the news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Howl

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This story is a work of fiction based on the fictionalized characters from the HBO miniseries _Generation Kill_. I do not own the characters or the series, or the book that inspired it; nor am I profiting from this in any way. I intend no disrespect to the real men on whom the book was based.
> 
> **Read @[LiveJournal](http://tea-diva.livejournal.com/8190.html)**

The wolves come out at night. 

Nate knows the dry, penetrating heat of the Kuwait sun is strong enough to discourage most of his men from shifting during the day, even as some others take it as a personal challenge. One thing that is true of all Marines, wolf or otherwise: they are always in search of a new way to push themselves that little bit further. Be just that little bit stronger, faster, better.

At night his platoon wanders through camp Mathilda, more silent than whispers, ears quirked and backs arched: guarding. Sometimes he catches them roughhousing, scampering around like puppies, or curled up with their noses tucked under their tails, resting. 

There is no segregation at Mathilda, for which Nate is both relieved and thankful. Bravo 2 and the other Recon wolves are allowed to move freely wherever they please. There is no Wolf Country even if he’s heard some men calling Bravo 2’s tent that. The only reason the tent bears the unofficial moniker is because his own platoon refers to it as such, even if there is an equal number of non-wolf Marines sharing the space. 

For their part, the men of Bravo 3 accept the half-joking accusations of living in a wolf den with good grace, shaking their heads ruefully, or rolling their eyes or laughing. A few, like Kocher, tip their heads back and howl, which is invariably answered by at least three of Nate's platoon members. 

The sun is already down when Nate steps out of the command tent. His thoughts are a tangled mess, at once trying to process the report he received from Battalion and tripping over appropriate responses. He keeps running into a wall in his own head, a stubborn part of himself that insists this isn't his decision to make. At least, not just his.

A faint wind carries shouts and cheers across the distance, overlaying the deeper sounds of snarls and barks that lead him to believe there are wolves putting on a bit of a show somewhere near his platoon’s tent. He heads off in that direction but makes certain to stop just out of sight of the chaos. Depending on what’s happening around the corner he doesn’t want to have to step in and break-up the evening’s entertainment. Obviously, the roughhousing isn’t bothering the pack’s alpha, because Nate’s pretty sure he catches a fleeting glimpse of Rudy’s dark chocolate fur in between the cheering Marines, and there is no way Reyes would participate in anything that doesn’t have Colbert’s approval. Nate trusts his alpha to know when his own pack needs to let off steam, and when to make certain they’re not getting themselves into trouble.

“Brad?” he says, not bothering to raise his voice despite the noise. 

A moment later, a tall, pale shape bleeds out of the darkness. Brad doesn’t sit, he simply pauses a few paces away and fixes Nate with his cool blue gaze, too keen to belong to an animal. 

Nate tips his head in the direction of their staged victors. “Five mikes.” 

Turning, Brad retreats into the darkness and Nate takes a moment to marvel at how seamlessly his alpha wolf’s bright white fur can be lost in shadow.

It takes Brad less than five minutes to join Nate by the Humvees, and when he does, he's in his fatigues, his boots laced perfectly as if he didn’t just rush into the tent and change. Dressing in a hurry is a skill every Marine learns within the first few days of training, but a wolf usually has it down well before he gets off the bus.

For some reason, the first thing Nate thinks of to say is, “We’ve got shamal winds moving in.”

Brad nods. “Yes sir. The air is thick with it.”

Sometimes Nate receives information in his meetings with Battalion that he's fairly certain his platoon is not only fully aware of, but has likely known for a lot longer than Godfather or anyone else. Weather updates for instance, are almost always met with a particularly dry quip from either Brad or Pappy, or bored faces. Nate always passes on the intel anyway.

Brad glances over and Nate wonders if the man can smell the hesitancy and anger and concern that he is managing to keep out of his posture and his expression. There are some things that you cannot keep from a wolf, no matter how you try. “Sir,” Brad says. “I trust that you didn't call me here to discuss the weather.”

Nate takes a moment to gather himself . “A small town in Arizona was attacked the other day.”

Brad’s posture shifts, he pulls himself up a little straighter, his eyes narrowing. “Terrorists?”

“No. Some ignorant assholes who tried to burn it to the ground. Americans.” He takes a breath, because this is the important part, “The town was almost exclusively populated by werewolves. After setting light to it, the men set-up roadblocks on every route out of town; they stood there with guns.” Brad is holding himself entirely still so Nate continues, “As far as any reports say, there have been no fatalities. Some injuries on both sides, that’s all. Most of the damage is to the town itself.”

Brad looks away. Natecan see the other man's jaw flexing. “With respect, sir, that is not taking into account the long-term damage.”

“No,” he agrees, quietly. 

It’s a mess, and it’s inexcusable. Nate wants to apologize on behalf of non-weres’ the world over, but words amount to exactly nothing when they can’t be translated into action. The only reason there isn’t a body count to go along with the news is because every citizen in that town shifted and got out in time, and then had the self-restraint not to rip the ignorant morons shooting at them apart. It was something that was never said explicitly in the briefing he just left, but everyone there was thinking it. This could have easily been a blood bath. 

What is important is the truth that they’re all left trying to adjust to, that neither he nor Brad wants to acknowledge because of its sheer magnitude. In Kuwait up until this moment the uncertainty has been whether or not they will be called to fight, whether or not they will be going to war. Now, there is an even greater question looming that ties into the truth that has come to light. 

Nate says, “Werewolves aren’t a secret anymore.”

Brad doesn't say anything. Nate wonders what the other man is thinking, if maybe he can make sense of this where Nate has been unable. He’s not even a werewolf, but he found himself clenching his fists all through the meeting at Battalion, worrying; wondering. Godfather had only minimal details to offer about what was going on back home. Whatever is happening has apparently been deemed irrelevant by Command; General Mattis wants every Marine focused on Iraq and the looming possibility of combat.

Nate wants to believe that werewolves will be accepted readily and easily, but he’s not that naïve. It’s almost a relief that his men are on the cusp of war because it means they’re not back home where everything is apparently about to go crazy.

“Are they pulling us out, sir?” Brad asks.

“That’s not the word I’m getting from Battalion. The USMC is still working out an official stance, but I’ve been assured that they’re not pulling wolves back over this. I've been assured of this.”

Brad nods and rubs a hand over his face. It’s a lot to take in but it’s not done yet. Nate takes breath and says, “It’s been suggested that bringing in a journalist might be to our advantage.” Brad’s sharp blue eyes flicker over Nate's face, scrutinizing. Nate continues, “It’s not an order. Captain Patterson has already said he’s willing to have a reporter embed with Alpha, should it come to that.”

The Corps is ever practical, and since werewolves are a valuable asset the USMC will undoubtedly be registering their support, the question is how. Godfather's contribution had been to open the gates for a journalist, someone unbiased that the civilian populous would be more inclined to trust, who could say that yes, werewolves are real and some of them are Marines, but they aren’t any more dangerous than any other Marine. Someone who just might be convinced to stand in their corner.

“I can see the pros and cons to this,” Nate says. “It could just as easily blow up in our faces, and it means we’d be responsible for a civilian. One who may or may not already be inclined to trust or even cooperate with us. I don’t think I need to say that, should something happen to that civilian, the platoon would not fair well with the media. To say nothing of the potential broader consequences.” 

Brad’s gaze has shifted into the distance; Nate thinks he’s likely calculating his own list of probabilities. It’s what Nate did the minute Godfather had voiced his plan. Nate continues, “The CO is leaving this decision to me, as platoon commander. I have until o-seven hundred to give my answer.” He doesn't need to explain that his answer will honor whatever Brad, as pack alpha, decides.

Brad sighs. “With respect, sir, this fucking sucks.”

Nate can’t contain his bitter smirk. It’s not ideal, not at all, but he can be thankful for what they do have going for them. For one, Godfather is asking Nate, he’s not leaving the decision to Captain Schwetje, and he’s not ordering. It means that Nate is able to consult with his alpha rather than issue a direct order. 

“It’s my understanding that the Battalion Commander would prefer to provide the journalist with options, rather than assign him to a specific platoon, in order to make the extent of our cooperation clear. There are plenty of wolves in Mathilda, Brad. We wouldn’t be denying access to information if we choose not to add Bravo 2 to the list.”

“Sir, as the only all-wolf platoon in Mathilda, I believe it would look suspect should Bravo 2 not be represented. Whether the reporter chooses us or not.” 

Also true, but Nate has no intention of pushing one option over another. This is wolf business and it’s not his place to give orders here, even if the Corps has empowered him to do so. He’s not even certain himself what he would do if he were in Brad’s position. Chances are good that, given the option, the draw of an all-wolf platoon will be stronger than the possibility of relative security among the supply lines and a wolf or two to chat with during down-time.

“Fuck it,” Brad says. “Put Bravo 2 on the list. We’ll deal with it if and when it comes to that.”

Nate nods. “Brad,” he says, and then hesitates because technically this is against protocol. Then again, no one specifically said that the information had to be kept secret, it’s a fine line but Nate intends to cross it. His platoon deserves at least this much. “This news isn’t expected to go mainstream until some time tomorrow. For obvious reasons, people are trying to keep it suppressed.” Brad smirks dryly and Nate rolls his eyes in agreement, they both know there is no possible way that anyone can keep this information under-wraps for long. “The BBC won’t have hold of it yet.” 

Brad holds his gaze for a moment. “Understood, sir.”

Nate trusts that Brad will know the best way to inform the rest of the platoon. It’s the sort of thing that would be better received from their alpha than from their platoon commander, regardless of how openly his men welcomed him into their group, Nate is aware of the line that separates weres’ from non-weres’, and officers from enlisted men. God knows he doesn't want his men hearing about the attack over the radio.

He watches as Brad’s head jerks in the direction of Bravo 2’s tent. A second later, there is a long wolf howl echoing in the night. The corner of Brad’s lip quirks up as the howl is quickly accompanied by excited yips and more howls. “Rudy won,” Brad explains, for Nate’s benefit.

“If they keep that up for much longer, the Sergeant Major isn’t going to be able to pretend he isn’t perfectly aware of what’s going on in your corner of camp.” Brad’s eyes flicker over to Nate and then away again. After another second of cacophony the camp falls into silence. 

Nate smiles to himself. Pack-speak, still something he’s trying to get used to. “Get some sleep,” he says. “I’m pushing through the paperwork for a training mission, but I can’t get clearance if our Humvees keep dying before we get through the gate.”

“Sir.” Brad jerks his head in a sharp nod before stepping off into the shadows, disappearing with the same ease he has in his wolf form. 

Nate’s going to have to keep a closer eye on them, he thinks, as he turns in the direction of the officers’ tent. Too much downtime and his platoon might get distracted with the news from home; worries about how it will affect their families and other werewolves, or what the future might hold. He can’t afford to have his men distracted, not if he plans to bring them all through this.

That is precisely Nate’s plan. 

To bring his platoon through whatever is coming for them, whether that includes crossing the border into Iraq and running headfirst into war, or not. No matter what the USMC or the United States of America throws at them, Bravo 2 is damned well coming out the other side of it.


End file.
